Viv lay in the dark, watching the digital display on the clock. Four fifty-eight . . . four fifty-nine . . . When the numbers ticked over to five, she reached out from under the duvet and punched the alarm off. There was no point in staying in bed worrying when she could be up and making a start on the morning.
Had she slept at all? She’d drifted in and out of anxious dreams, dogged by a fear of being unprepared and by a vague sense of menace. Twice she’d got up to check on Grace, only to find her sleeping peacefully, her old stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest as if she were a toddler.
They’d argued when Viv had come in from the pub last night. Grace had been sullen, watching telly past her bedtime—and without her glasses, which Viv knew would give her a headache—and had refused to acknowledge her mother until Viv had snapped at her and switched off the television.
“Why did you say I couldn’t talk to Fergus?” Grace had shouted at her then, tears starting. “He was nice. He asked about school, and about my bike.”
“I’ve told you not to talk to—”
“Yeah, you’re always telling me. But he wasn’t a stranger. He knew you—”
“Just because I know him doesn’t mean he’s nice.” Viv sat beside her on the sofa, ignoring Grace’s flinch away from her. “Look, love, it’s a long story and I’ll tell you sometime, but not tonight. I just want you to be careful, okay? Not everybody is what they seem.”
In Grace she saw her own reckless streak, the same one that had sent her off to work in a London kitchen at seventeen, as green as any country girl straight off the hay wagon. A little distrust would have seen her in good stead.
And Fergus, dear God. Why had she even introduced him to Grace? After disappearing mysteriously for a few hours after he’d scared her out of her wits that morning, he’d come back in the afternoon, all Irish blarney, trying to coax Viv into some harebrained new scheme. She’d been standing in the yard arguing with him when Grace got home from school. Viv hadn’t wanted to make a scene in front of Grace, and she’d had to get back to prepping for the dinner service, so she’d left them together. What had she been thinking?
That Fergus O’Reilly would have undergone some magical transformation in the years since she’d walked out on him and his bloody restaurant? That he suddenly had her best interests at heart?
Bollocks.
When she’d come to her senses, Fergus had been gone and Grace had wandered into the kitchen looking suspiciously smitten. Viv had told her not to speak to him again and hoped that would be the end of it.
But Viv should have known she hadn’t seen the last of Fergus. At the start of dinner service, he’d walked into the pub—her pub!—and picked his way through her menu as if he were a Michelin judge, then left the food barely tasted on the plates he’d sent back to the kitchen. By the time he’d strolled into the back without so much as a by-your-leave, she’d been ready to take his head off. And then he’d caused a scene that she was going to have a hard time explaining to anyone.
Bastard.
Well, she wasn’t going to let him ruin this day. Fergus O’Reilly had caused enough damage in her life. She threw off the duvet, pulled on her whites, and headed for the pub.
Kincaid woke to the sound of running water. Gemma in the shower, he thought, fuzzily, then opened his eyes and squinted against light that seemed much too bright for their bedroom. Moving, he gasped as pain shot through his ribs, bringing recollection with it.
Not at home. He was in the guest room at the Talbots’. He’d wrecked his car. His head ached and his right hand throbbed. Gingerly, he lifted his swollen fingers and touched the knot on his forehead.
Gemma came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. She’d pulled up her coppery hair in a clip but escaping tendrils curled from the steam. “You’re awake,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed. “I was going to let you sleep. How are you feeling?”
Wincing, Kincaid pulled himself into a sitting position. “Sore.”
“And here I was thinking you looked a bit rakish.” Gemma raised an eyebrow and patted his arm, letting her towel slip a few inches.
“I’ll show you rakish,” he said, reaching out to touch the exposed curve of her breast. Both his ribs and his hand protested. “Ow.” He grimaced and sat back. “I’m bloody useless today.”
Gemma eyed him critically. “You should take it easy.”
He started to shake his head, then thought better of it. “I’ve got to make a statement. And I’ve got to see about the Astra.”
“I’ll drive you. I’m sure I can borrow Melody’s car. And you need to have that cut looked at.”
“I’ll be fine,” Kincaid said, without much conviction. “And what about Doug and the boys?” He’d meant to collect them in his car.
“I’m sure we can work out something. I suspect they have taxis even in the country.” Gemma leaned over and kissed him very gently on the unbruised side of his forehead. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You moaned and mumbled a good bit in your sleep last night.”
“Did I?” Some of the dreams came back to him now, a confusion of flashing lights and the smell of blood. He’d told Gemma, when they were alone in their room last night, about the medics saying the passenger in the other car was dead before the impact. But he had not told her about Nell Greene’s last few moments, and he found he still couldn’t quite bring himself to talk about it. “Where’s Char, then?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
“Downstairs. Helping.” Gemma rolled her eyes and stood up. “And I had better get down there and rescue Melody.”
“Nonsense,” said Ivan, when Gemma proposed at breakfast that she should borrow Melody’s little Renault to take Kincaid to the recovery yard and then to give his statement at the Cheltenham police station.
Startled, Kincaid looked at him as Melody said, “Dad—”
“I’ll take the lad myself,” Ivan went on before Melody could finish her protest. “Your mother needs all the help she can get this morning, and I am about as useful as the proverbial bull in the china shop.”
Given that Ivan had made them a proper fried breakfast with all the aplomb of an accomplished cook, Kincaid suspected Ivan could turn a deft hand to just about anything. He didn’t doubt, however, that Addie needed help. She’d greeted them when they came down, then gone out to oversee the setting up of the hired tables in the garden, taking a wide-eyed Charlotte with her. When he’d asked if she wasn’t joining them for breakfast, Ivan had growled, “Yogurt and berries, that’s all she’ll eat,” with a look of disgust. Addie’s answering smile told him that this was a familiar argument.
“Sir,” he said, then, at Ivan’s glare, corrected himself. “Ivan. If Gemma’s needed here, I’m sure I can get a taxi.” Managing to shower, shave, and dress had convinced him he shouldn’t attempt to drive, especially not a borrowed car. Not only was his right hand swollen and too tender to use, he felt surprisingly shaky and fuzzy-headed.
“Nonsense,” Ivan repeated firmly. “It would cost you a fortune. Besides, I know a chap or two.”
“But what about the boys?” Kincaid asked.
“I’ll run into Moreton for Doug and the boys,” said Melody. “Piece of cake.”
Kincaid sat back, lifting his coffee cup in a left-handed salute. “You’re a bossy lot, you Talbots.”
Gemma shot Melody a grin. “I could have told you that.”
The heady scent of caramel filled the quiet pub kitchen. Viv stood back, surveying her work with satisfaction.
The small glass jars filled with a spread made from local smoked trout were packed into a cool box. Earlier in the week, Grace had helped her make the labels for the jars, as well as for the two puddings which she would serve the same way. The guests would be encouraged to take home any that were left, as well as the larger jars of pickled vegetables. She’d fermented cabbage with radishes, and cauliflower with haricots verts and carrots. The spice mixtures were not as hot as traditional kimchee—a concession to the bland English palate—but still had a good bit of pop. The spicy, crunchy veg made a perfect counterpoint to the soft creaminess of the smoked lamb and beans.
Those she was serving together, in individual camping tins, to be warmed just before lunch in the Beck House warming ovens. It was all a bit precious, the jars and the tins, but she wanted the meal to be something people would remember.
She’d made a seeded crispbread for the potted trout course, and flatbreads to serve warm with the lamb and pickles. In between the trout and the lamb she planned a salad course—fresh greens, topped with roasted pear halves she’d done the previous day, a local soft blue cheese, and a drizzle of caramel. This was the course that had given her the most worry. It checked every foodie box, but would require last-minute assembly in the Beck House kitchen, and a good bit of willing volunteer help. She couldn’t pull Ibby or Angelica from the pub kitchen on a busy autumn Saturday.
When the back door creaked open, she thought it might be Ibby, there to start lunch prep, but it was Bea, looking considerably the worse for wear. Her dark hair was tousled, her eyes shadowed, and instead of her usual work uniform of dark skirt and white blouse she wore sweatpants and an old T-shirt.
Bea headed straight for the coffee machine. When she’d started a cup, she turned to Viv. “Now, are you going to tell me what that was all about last night? Why the hell would you let him come here?”
“I didn’t let him,” Viv protested, all her calm from a moment before vanishing. “I have no idea how he tracked me down.”
“I’ll tell you how. It was this damned lunch.” Bea waved a hand at Viv’s carefully prepared courses. “You bloody well know it was. One of the food critics Addie Talbot invited had to have mentioned it. I told you this whole thing was a bad idea.”
“Look.” Viv wiped her hands on her apron and fetched the cream for Bea’s coffee from the fridge. She hated seeing Bea so upset. Bea was the rock in their partnership, the dependable and steady half, and when she’d agreed to Addie Talbot’s plan, she’d had no idea that Bea would be so set against it. But, then, she hadn’t foreseen Fergus popping up, either. “It will be fine,” she said, handing Bea the bottle. “He’ll not come back after last night.” She knew she was reassuring herself.
“No?” Bea was still scowling. “Not even for the camel hair coat he left in the bar?”
As Duncan and Ivan left the breakfast table to get ready for their run to Cheltenham, Gemma heard Melody’s phone ding with a text. Frowning, Melody tapped an answer, then glanced up at Gemma, who’d stood to clear the table. “Um, slight change of plans,” she said. “That was Doug. He and the boys are coming early. So I’ll run pick them up now, if you don’t mind giving Mummy a hand in the garden.”
“Wait.” Gemma gave Melody a sharp look. “Why didn’t they tell us they were coming early? What about Toby’s class?” Realization dawned. “You told Doug about the accident, didn’t you?”
“I might have just texted him last night.” Melody smiled a little apologetically. “Can you imagine what he’d have said if he’d shown up at noon and no one had told him what happened to Duncan?”
Gemma had to admit she had a point. And she would be glad to have the boys with them sooner rather than later—although she wasn’t sure that Toby’s presence would help with the luncheon prep. Still, she didn’t like being left out of the loop. “I can pick them up, if you don’t mind me borrowing your car,” she said, realizing how much she really hated being dependent on someone else for transport.
“No, I’ll go.” Melody was already grabbing her bag from the sideboard. “I know the way, and the train’s due in twenty minutes. Don’t worry about the washing up. I’ll do it when I get back.” Then she was gone.
Gemma gazed after her. Duncan had been right about the Talbot bossiness. She’d been managed, and she wondered if there was more to Melody’s tactic than convenience.
From the garden came the Jack Russell’s high-pitched yips, and Charlotte’s even more shrill squeal of excitement. Gemma realized she’d left the child in Addie’s care too long. She stacked the breakfast plates in the sink and headed for the French doors that led to the terrace.
She stepped out into the crisp morning and stopped, her breath catching at the sight that greeted her. Last night, she’d only glimpsed the garden through the windows in the fading dusk, and then her gaze had been caught by the distant hills.
Now, she marveled at the riot of color and symmetry spread before her. The flagged terrace merged into a smooth expanse of emerald lawn anchored by a rose-draped pergola. Two long tables had been set up in the grass on either side.
At the lawn’s edge she could see drifts of flowers bisected by a shallow flight of steps, and beyond that, more green lawns and steps, leading her eyes down to the curve of the little river.
On either side of the top lawn, double herbaceous borders blazed in a profusion of late-summer reds and golds. She’d no idea so many different flowers even existed.
“Mummy!” Charlotte came running to her from the pergola, the terrier at her heels. “I’ve been throwing the ball for Polly. She likes it.”
“I’ll bet she does.” Gemma gave her a squeeze. Mac the deerhound lay in a patch of shade cast by the pergola, massive head on his paws, watching Charlotte as if he’d been given the charge.
“There’s a bowling lawn, and a tennis lawn. Miss Addie says we can play after the lunch.”
“Where is Miss Addie?” Gemma asked, a little concerned that Charlotte had been left on her own. But just then, the big dog raised his head, and she saw Addie coming from the left, her arms filled with a bundle of fabric.
“Just getting the tablecloths,” Addie explained. “I had them in the glasshouse.”
Gemma thought she must have meant greenhouse, but when she looked in that direction she saw that it was, quite literally, a glass house, glass and white wrought iron with a peaked roof.
“My grandfather’s folly,” said Addie, following her gaze. “Or at least so everyone thought at the time. It’s Victorian. He found it on an estate that was being razed in the thirties, had it taken down and reassembled. A good thing, too, as otherwise the iron might have gone for scrap in the war. Now, of course, the glasshouse is priceless.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Gemma. “And the garden, it’s—” She shook her head and waved a hand at the surroundings. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s spectacular.”
Addie smiled. “We’ve made an effort to return it to something like its Edwardian glory. Jekyll-esque, if not pure Gertrude Jekyll.” Gemma’s incomprehension must have shown, because she added, “Gertrude Jekyll was the most brilliant of the Arts and Crafts garden designers. Family letters say she consulted with the architect who designed the house, but we’ve never found any actual plans. I’ll give you a proper tour after lunch. But in the meantime,” she went on, dumping the red-and-white-checked bundle on one of the hire tables, “we’d better get a move on. Where’s Melody?”
“Oh. I came to tell you.” Gemma explained about the early arrival and the train. “So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a bit.”
Addie glanced at her watch. “My assistant, Roz, should be here soon, and she’s rounded up some of the village ladies to help with the serving. So if you could just help me get the tables laid—” Her phone dinged. Checking the text, she said, “That’s Viv, our chef. She’s in the drive and the house is locked. Would you mind letting her in? She’s got things for the kitchen.”
Gemma checked to make sure Charlotte wasn’t being a nuisance, but she was sitting quietly on the top step, the terrier beside her. “Of course.”
Hurrying back through the house, she opened the front door. A woman in a chef’s jacket and checked trousers was pulling plastic tubs from the back of a small van. She was slender—perhaps a little too thin—with short, blond, carelessly spiked hair. Beside her stood a girl, hands in hoodie pockets, a scowl on her small bespectacled face. Her mop of light brown hair was almost as curly as Charlotte’s.
“Hi, I’m Gemma. Addie sent me to help.”
The woman set the tub down and held out a hand to Gemma. “I’m Viv. Viv Holland. And this is my daughter, Grace.”
The girl managed a nod and a mumbled “Nice to meet you,” but kept her gaze firmly on Gemma’s feet.
“Tell me what goes where,” Gemma said, gesturing at the van’s contents.
“Everything in the scullery to start with. Then we can sort it out.” Viv handed Gemma the tub she’d set down, then picked out a smaller one for Grace. “Here, love, take the pears. They’re not so heavy. You know where to go.”
As Viv pulled out a cool box, Grace trudged towards the open front door as if the tub were filled with lead.
“She’s eleven,” Viv said with a sigh.
“Oh. That explains it, then,” Gemma replied with a grin. Now, she saw that Viv Holland was not as young as she’d first thought, and that she looked hollow-eyed with exhaustion.
“You have kids?” Viv asked as they entered the house.
“Three. My daughter’s in the garden with Addie, and the boys should be here any moment with Melody.” She followed Viv through the kitchen into a room she hadn’t noticed, a right angle in the far corner of the house. There was a utility sink, a dishwasher, a large fridge, and two built-in warming ovens. A door opened onto the terrace. The far end of the room held racks of Wellies and pegs for anoraks.
Grace went out onto the terrace and ran to greet the dogs, suddenly looking more like a child than a sulky preteen.
“Is it just you and Addie, then?” she added with a frown, glancing out. “I thought Nell was helping out this morning.”
“Nell?” Gemma echoed, realizing with dismay that Viv hadn’t heard the news.
“Yeah. Nell Greene, from the village. Nice woman. She’s supposed to be doing the setup.”
“Viv.” Gemma touched her arm. “I’m sorry, but there’s something you should know.”